"If he really is in love with somebody else--and I can hardly doubt it after what I have seen--I think he has behaved very dishonorably to me," she says in a quavering tone. "How so?" I stammer, hardly knowing what to say. "How so?" with mild reproof. "Why, what has he meant by coming here day after day, and sitting for hours in the drawing-room, and bringing flowers and game, unless he had some intentions with regard to me? Only that you are so dull, Phyllis, you would not require me to say all this." "It certainly looks very strange," I acknowledge. "But perhaps, after all, Dora, you are misjudging him. Perhaps it was his sister's--Lady Handcock's--hair he was kissing." "Nonsense!" says Dora, sharply; "don't be absurd. Did you ever hear of any brother wasting so much affection upon a sister? Do you suppose Billy or Roland would keep _your_ face or hair in a locket to kiss and embrace in private?" I certainly cannot flatter myself that they would, so give up this line of argument. "Perhaps the person, whoever she is, is dead," I suggest more brilliantly. "No. He smiled at it quite brightly, as one would never smile at a dead face. He smiled at it as if he _adored_ it," murmurs Dora, hopelessly, and the fiftieth drop splashes into her lap. "I shall tell papa," she goes on presently. "I have no idea of letting him be imagining things when there is no truth in them. I wish we had never seen Mr. Carrington! I wish with all my heart something would occur to take him out of this place! I feel as though I hated him," says Dora with unusual vehemence and a rather vicious compression of the lips; "and, at all events, I hope he will never marry that woman in the locket." And I answer, "so do I" with rather suspicious haste as in duty bound. CHAPTER IX. It is the evening of the same day, and we are all seated in our accustomed places at the dinner table; all, that is, except papa. It is such an unusual thing for _him_ to be absent, once a bell has sounded summoning us to meals, that we are busy wondering what can be the matter, when the door is flung violently open, and he enters. It becomes instantly palpable to every one of us, that, in the words of the old song, "sullen glooms his brow;" Billy alone, with his usual obtuseness, remaining dangerously unconscious of this fact. Papa sits down in a snapping fashion and commences the helping process in silence. Mamma never sits at the head of her table except on those rare and unpleasant occasions when the neighbors are asked to dine. Not a word is spoken; deadly quiet reigns, and all is going on smoothly enough, until Billy, unhappily raising his head, sees Dora's crimson lids. "Why, Dora," he exclaims, instantly, in a loud and jovial tone, "what on earth is the matter with you? Your eyes are as red as fire." Down goes Dora's spoon, up comes Dora's handkerchief to her face, and a stifled sob conveys the remainder of her feelings. It is the last straw.